Female Initiation

DOROTHY STORRS is twenty-two and a journalist, married, with no children. She likes men. She enjoys playing the male, sexually and in general — a sort of adult tomboy, if you like. This bizarre role makes her case history one of the most interesting. Rather than outline her background — family and personal — beforehand, we have decided to let Dorothy Storrs fill you in on these facts during this, her personal account of her sexual experiences. And fascinating reading they make, too:

I consider myself fortunate in having the intervention by friendship of Sidney, my dear, sympathetic husband. As Sidney himself would be the first to admit, our hectic, sordid oversexed months before our marriage became a nightmare. He was so fascinated by my high-bosomed, leggy physique that his senses reeled from the first moment his gaze fell on me. Poor guy.

Sidney could only get his peace of mind regarding his shyness towards me by having to speak up to a psychiatrist regularly during that period of our meeting. Possibly, if Sidney knew all about me from the beginning, he might not have fallen in love with me.

I was a wild youngster who had gone from school petting to back-seat mauling in one easy lesson. I liked it so much that I was usually the one who was the aggressor, squeezing the life out of those feeble, adolescent cocks before they ever had a chance to rise to the occasion. Nobody in my town knew that my private life included doing blue films for a crew of guys who regularly came down from London especially to film myself and a few equally young friends. I had a wanton lust for sexual excitement that belied my curvy, film-starlet body.

Once I had been picked up on the edge of town by two young men who were driving through on their way to the West Country. They would have been content to flirt with me and give me a lift — but not me. I immediately went about seducing the pair of them and stopping at a convenient, high-hedged field for what I used to call a "relaxer". The initiation was a blatant one, and the men jumped at the chance.

In the second hour of "relaxation" and drinking things got somewhat out of hand. My shrieks of pleasure were overheard by a passing farm manager who evidently called the police to break up the orgy. But the two lads managed to beat the farm manager to the punch and they escaped the police by throwing me into the back seat and roaring off down a side lane. I got away with it, but the police caught the lads later. As usual, I was still headed on a path of corruption.

What makes a girl behave like a mare on heat? Why can't passion be kept dignified and personal when necessary? My husband-to-be was the first man who — as well as taking advantage of my ever-randy state — was sufficiently concerned to ask these questions. But more of him later. When I was fourteen I had begun to wonder why boys and even grown men seemed to take scientific interest in the manner in which I walked down the local high street. My wonder was short-lived. One night, after accepting a lift home from the cinema with one Richard Broom, I found out in a manner I have never since had occasion to forget. Richard thoughtfully took my friend, Wendy Batley, home first, and between Wendy's house and mine there was a dark, dead-end street that had no houses as yet.

I discovered that his lips were delightfully hot and his hands to be both active and objective. I was stunned by the reaction that his caresses on my thighs produced, and in his expert hands I was putty. Richard had been there and I hadn't, but despite this inexperience I knew instinctively where we were heading.

He took me home that night, my body tingling and sated, my mind a vortex of emotions so furious I almost became ill. I was hardly free of his goodnight embrace before I was planning an encore. The surprise at finding myself wet — almost slippery — inside my pants had thrilled me tremendously, but the feeling of his length sliding up into me turned my infantile, romantic, pop-star idolising desires into mature, womanly lust. How could I let him simply walk away?

His eyes were soft, almost purple in the moonlight and his long lashes almost obscured them as he looked at me. What a dish he was!

"Please, Richard, don't go yet," I remember asking him, my hand gripping the bulge that still protruded through his cotton jeans, leaving no question as to what I meant.

"But ... your grandfather ..."

"He sleeps like a log. He'll never hear."

So we went into the dark living room and discovered each other all over again — nor did darkness prove the slightest deterrent. This time, however, the end result was such that my overloaded nerves couldn't stand it and I cried out as I felt him twitching inside me, leaving him white and shaking because the cry had awakened my grandfather.

I recovered swiftly, tucked my damp panties into my handbag and said to him in an undertone, "Let me handle this". Jesus, was I shaking!

When my grandfather came into the living room and turned on the light, I was perched on a stout oak table with a hand at my mouth.

"Oh ... Grandad! Sorry to wake you, but you know how mice frighten me. Just as Richard opened the door to let me in, one ran right across the floor."

Grandad grunted and chuckled. "I was sure it was a tiger, going by the noise you made." He looked searchingly at the shaken boy.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of them too?"

Richard laughed nervously. "No, Mr. Green, she was the one who scared me." The ineptness of his remark caused a wave of red to flood his face, and Grandad laughed.

"Well, don't let me embarrass you. Now I'm going back to bed. Don't be too late, Dot."

The moment the door closed, I went into his arms again and he drew in a shuddering breath. We were both pretty shaken.

He stroked me softly with a visibly shaking hand, obviously relieved that his reputation was still intact — if not his skull. I recovered quickly and was soon ready for further conquests, but I discovered a fundamental weakness in the male rigging that night. No matter how I tried, Richard couldn't get hard again. He had had it, and went home with his nerves shrieking warnings.

However, Richard recovered quickly enough and soon he and I were virtually inseparable. The joy that had been his from his other female friends was such pale provender that it ceased to interest him and the community clearly thought our little romance was awfully cute.

We were admired and smiled upon by our elders and everyone sighed and thought what a fine thing young love was. If they'd known the true extent of our lusts (I was already developing a liking for prolonged oral sex) they would have wiped those condescending smiles from their faces quickly enough. But, as elders will, they changed their minds regardless, and soon became

almost poisonous in their antipathy to young love.

Richard Broom was considerably shaken to discover that I was his with a completeness that defied description, but not to the total exclusion of all mankind. At seventeen, I was a hazard and gloried in the fact. I began to compare myself to numerous sexpot film and television sirens and invariably failed to suffer by comparison. I was reckoned to be very intelligent, imaginative, and curious. I was the joy of my teachers, who spoke of my scholastic achievements among themselves, but they had begun to feel a little fearful of the heated waves of attraction that emanated from me with no effort on my part at all. Every move I made, every act of attraction, was studied and contrived — but even at seventeen I was so convincing that no-one ever suspected it.

It was no more than natural that an intelligent, uninhibited girl with a full store of confidence in her appeal to the male animal should wish to test her arsenal, Richard was no longer a test — the challenge was lacking.

My first test was, by my own deliberate decision, the toughest that the town afforded. Sidney Spencer was the town's stalwart. He was tall, thin, bespectacled youth, so serious that my friends have him a wide berth because he was never at their mental level. He was a sober, industrious worker, and in all ways a model of moral decorum. This was the individual upon whom I levelled my guns — and the results were a visitation upon the small town that it would long remember.

The day before I had decided I would test Sidney Spencer, I managed another test that was unscheduled. John Fenton, an assistant games master who also taught chemistry, called me in for a discussion of my latest homework. There was nothing whatsoever wrong with the work I'd done, but John's blood had been brought to a boil once too often by the sight of me walking down the corridors woth my bottom-wiggling stride. That his career might

be ruined and his neck in danger from various sources was something that John was past thinking about. Quite clearly — to the rest of my form, as well as myself — I was a fever in his blood and a canker in his brain.

He was using the headmaster's office because the headmaster was away and he was substituting. Thus, the office suggested a sort of sanctum sanctorum which, in fact, it was not — as John was about to discover to his horror.

When I stepped into the office, I smiled mistily at the most fanciable man who was frowning at an exercise book in an effort to do something about the racing beat of his heart. I had not been exactly unaware of his attentions for some time, and I sometimes wondered how long it would take him to crack. I hadn't considered him as a likely subject of a test, although he was attractive and was the body beautiful of the school. Also, judging by the gi-normous bulge in his pants, he was pretty big all round ... But he was married, and that placed him beyond my reach — a matter of which I became less and less concerned as time passed.

"Er, come in, Dorothy, come in ..." He was pitifully agitated, so I agitated him more by walking with slow, deliberate steps to a chair and sitting. My hip sway was exaggerated just enough to make it look deliciously natural. My waist was tiny, my hips swivelled on a spine that was as flexible as a whip. I sat with a fluid grace at which John winced with something acutely resembling real pain. I wore a skirt and a matching jumper which did damn all to obscure the movements of my rather prominent boobs — in fact, just before entering the study I deliberately opened another button. Already I could feel the juices at work between my thighs ...

"I called you about your homework," he began, hating himself for letting me hear his voice break.

"Oh ... Did I do something wrong?"

"No, as a matter of fact, you didn't your work is perfect."

"Then what is the —"

"Nothing the matter at all. Just a really top rate effort, and I wanted to congratulate you on it."

This was such a patently hollow excuse that I became more than a little excited, since I was certain that the paper had nothing to do with the summons, and that left but one thing. With the test of Sidney Spencer in the offing. I thrilled to the prospect of flexing some of her vast store of my armaments. I caught the straight chair by the seat on either side of my smoothly curved thighs and hitched myself forward a fraction, which shoved my high, hard breasts almost out of the plunging neckline. Slowly I relaxed, watching the expressions chase themselves across his face.

"That was really nice of you," I murmured, with a contrived throatiness that seemed to make his mind veer crazily. I relaxed, but he reatined the picture of a lacy-edged bra so filled with creamy smooth flesh as to almost overflow.

He shrugged. "If you'd handed in a bad essay I would have called you in, so I thought if I'm to be fair, I must congratulate good students as well as criticise the bad."

"I think that's very nice, Mr. Fenton. It looks like ..."

I got up and, approaching, rested my hands on the desk, smiling apologetically. "It seems as though good pupils are taken for granted, but just make a mistake and you get a roasting." I made a move to go.

"Oh ... Do you have to go right now?"

"No," I replied, "I'm in no hurry."

The words were not exceptional, but the melting quality in his eyes, the breathless look on his face made him irresistible. I lifted my skirt slowly above my hips, unfastened it, and let it drop to the floor. Pulling my panties aside, fixing my gaze on him intently, I rubbed my fingertip over the wetness of my labia as though using him as a masturbatory object. After all, I wasn't imagining the erection that bulged so blatantly in his trousers.

My action shocked him to the quick — and then I was in his arms and he never knew if it was his or my efforts that effected the embrace.

He was tall and slender and so excitingly erect that my mind reeled and my lips felt on the verge of stealing the soul from his body.

He pulled me to him and held me close by my buttocks, which he massaged and pulled wide apart — knowing full well the exciting feeling this registered on my wet sex. It was then that John Fenton lost control of the situation. Pushing me forward over the desk-top, he pulled my pants down and, kneeling behind me, plunged his open mouth between the crack in my bottom, licking and salivating like an impassioned dog. He forgot everything but this burning morsel at the point of his tongue, and my wet, responding sex-lips caused his hands to tremor as they clasped, firmly implanted under his roving mouth.

His fingers moved up to avail still more of me to his probing tongue, at which Miss Nora Ashton-Gaye opened the door on the most fundamental sound she had ever heard from a young girl's throat.

Miss Ashton-Gaye was an English teacher, comfortably secure in middle-aged spinsterhood. She stopped short, gasping from a shock that made her quiver from head to toe in a manner which she had probably abandoned some twenty years before. She stood bereft of speech for a moment and managed to note that I merely slid away, my skirt slipping down into place. I stood and regarded her in sheer astonishment, not knowing what the hell to say or do.

John Fenton, however, looked as though he had been subjected to sudden high voltage. He went a sickly pale colour and raised a palsied hand that hung loosely until Miss Ashton-Gaye managed to speak.

"This," she said in her clipped, precise way, "would have been rather touching had it not involved con-

siderably more intimacy than a mere — a mere —" Her vocabulary deserted her momentarily. "And a married man," she finished with a rush.

The assistant games master groaned, sinking into a chair where he began to look remarkably ill. His career was blasted and black doom stared him in the face.

Miss Ashton-Gaye looked at him for a moment, and to me it seemed that her eyes were sad rather than critical. She turned to me and said in a low voice, "Come with me, my dear."

I followed her out and into the first-aid room where Miss Ashton-Gaye shut and locked the door. When she faced me she was obviously angry, I was determined not to show the slightest sign of repentance.

"Sit down, child."

I obeyed, my face still deliberately expressionless. "I think I can recite what you're going to say, Miss Ashton-Gaye. Maybe I can save you the trouble. If you blame him all the way, you're wrong. Why did you bring me in here?"

"First, I'm not going to say anything outside this room."

"You mean you're going to let it drop — just like that?"

Miss Ashton-Gaye nodded. "Dorothy, I'm going to ask you a personal question, so personal you might not wish to answer. If that is the case, you are free to keep silent —"

"No, Miss," I replied. "I'm not a virgin, and haven't been since I was fourteen."

She gaped for a second, somewhat put out of countenance. "How did you know..."

"It was natural. I suppose a good many people are wondering."

Saved again — this time by the skin of my teeth. I was so badly shaken, I stayed at home for the following week, grateful that I had been given the chance to continue my studies — and my sexual conquests — unhampered.

Sidney Spencer happened with a casualness that few could have arranged. The events occurred so

unexpectedly that hardly anyone realised that it was there except myself. Sidney was so predictable in his habits that I could accurately picture the scene where he invariably studied. No one ever sat at the table because he always affected a superior attitude, which the girls hated. He made the boys feel like intellectual clods and the girls preferred richer fields.

He didn't fully realise I was there for some time, being vaguely conscious that some other human was across the table, but the impression could have borne no identification. He did raise his eyes, and the sight that presented itself almost startled an exclamation from him. I was absorbed in a book spread before me, my smooth hands crossed at the wrists and my breasts rested upon my forearms. I wore another jumper, but one no more able to conceal than the one which caused Mr. Fenton to lose his head, and again one more button was undone than should have been. Sidney's mouth fell open and stayed for some time. His eyes bored into my cleavage with such concentration that I had raised my eyes and watched him for some time before he was aware that I had noticed, then he nearly fainted from mortification.

"Are you ill, Sidney?" I asked in an undertone.

Sidney made several noises, none of which could have been called a reply, and I used his incoherence as an excuse to get up and go around to his side of the table.

"I didn't understand you," I said in an undertone.

"I —" he managed to get out finally. "I didn't say anything. I was staring at you. I don't know why. You caught me and it embarrassed me I beg your pardon."

"For looking at me?"

"Well — in the most exact sense, that's what I mean — and yet it is not ... precisely." the first time he had been left alone with a girl. I, however, had no intention of allowing the situation to become sticky.

"Come on, Sidney, show me your bedroom."

Sidney nervously put an old Beatles record on his turntable and shuffled edgily to the beat as he rummaged through a pile of old papers and exercise books.

"Here, have a look at these," he said, handing me some small magazines. The titles immediately struck me as being unusual: Climax, Private, Weekena Sex, but the pictures! I was shocked and incredulous that "Brainbox" Spencer should find such depiction of obscenity pleasureable. Then I looked again at the bespectacled face, the unfortunate mannerisms. How else was the poor kid expected to get his thrills?

"Sidney, put these away and get out of those clothes," I commanded.

Within ten seconds Sidney had obeyed both commands. I took one look at his skinny physique and almost fainted: his erection was the largest I'd ever seen, and it bobbed up and down almost with menace as he walked towards me.

Suddenly I was flipped over on to my belly by a strength that was little short of astounding — and he was in me. Dear Sidney, the classroom intellectual and bundle-of-nerves was the most impressive cocksman I had ever been privileged to have inside me! For almost half an hour he lay into me, not even panting or beginning to sweat, not saying a word — just going about his task with a devastating skill that had me climaxing over and over again.

Naturally, I didn't dare let on to my schoolfriends the extent of Sidney's sexual skills. He wasn't going to escape that lightly. And so, with a firm belief in my new, gawky hero, I set about changing his image. First his N.H. spectacles were changed for a more sophisticated, horn-rimmed pair, then his frizzy hair was cropped to a more manageable length. But perhaps the biggest change of all came when his

spots disappeared and his nervousness became replaced by the self-confidence I successfully instilled in him. The ugly duckling was fast becoming a big, beautiful buck swan.

Just as other girls were getting wise to Sidney's new, improved looks, so our 'A' levels results came through and we all dispersed to different colleges.

Sidney and I were the only two to gain acceptance to Oxford — and throughout our three years there, our relationship gradually blossomed and intensified. Now extraordinarily good-looking, shatteringly intelligent, and a superb lover, I proudly accepted his offer to marry me. How could I turn down such a chance?

But, I must confess, I still feel those old "schoolgirl twinges," despite leading a full and active sex life with Sidney. More than a few travelling salesmen have fallen my way during Sidney's absence. But he knows — and understands. To use his words:

"A sportswoman can't attempt record-breaking without a lot of practice."

How philosophical can you get?

"That sounds a little contradictory," I said.

He seemed surprised to hear me use such a word. To him, women were all dull and stupid. "I suppose it does —"

"Then you mean you were staring at some particular part of me. I arched my back and the leaping revolution of my boobs, which the act brought into sharp, staggering definition, seemed almost to take his breath. Unaccountably, he became emboldened.

"Well, I must admit what you say is true."

"Then what's so bad about that? Your attention was very flattering. I'm not the only girl at school you've ever paid any attention to."

"The only one. Absolutely. Not another single solitary one —" He stopped in mid-speech and leered uncomfortably, lowering his eyes and flushing red once again.

"That flatters me. I like to be flattered." I glanced around swiftly, then back at him. "Thank you, Sidney — so much." I bent forward and kissed him fleetingly on the lips and left him. Sure enough, before the day was out, Sidney came up to me and invited me to dinner with his mother.

As I changed that evening to meet Sidney, I began thinking of him in a more physical light. All right, so he was rather beaky and arrogant, but he was delightfully skinny and tall — which probably meant that he had a well-proportioned cock. Tall boys so often turn out to be delightfully long and slender in other ways ...

Dinner with Sidney's mother was a bore, but she had the presence of mind to realise that we wanted to be alone. However, the minute she left the room Sidney began to panic. Clearly, this was

Dinner with Sidney's mother was a bore, but she had the presence of mind to realise that we wanted to be alone. However, the minute she left the room Sidney began to panic. Clearly, this was the first time he had been left alone with a girl. I, however, had no intention of allowing the situation to become sticky. "Come on, Sidney, show me your bedroom."

Sidney nervously put an old Beatles record on his turntable and shuffled edgily to the beat as he rummaged through a pile of old papers and exercise books.

"Here, have a look at these," he said, handing me some small magazines. The titles immediately struck me as being unusual: Climax, Private, Weekena Sex, but the pictures! I was shocked and incredulous that "Brainbox" Spencer should find such depiction of obscenity pleasurable. Then I looked again at the bespectacled face, the unfortunate mannerisms. How else was the poor kid expected to get his thrills?

"Sidney, put these away and get out of those clothes," I commanded.

Within ten seconds Sidney had obeyed both commands. I took one look at his skinny physique and almost fainted: his erection was the largest I'd ever seen, and it bobbed up and down almost with menace as he walked towards me.

Suddenly I was flipped over on to my belly by a strength that was little short of astounding — and he was in me. Dear Sidney, the classroom intellectual and bundle-of-nerves was the most impressive cocksman I had ever been privileged to have inside me! For almost half an hour he lay into me, not even panting or beginning to sweat, not saying a word — just going about his task with a devastating skill that had me climaxing over and over again.

Naturally, I didn't dare let on to my schoolfriends the extent of Sidney's sexual skills. He wasn't going to escape that lightly. And so, with a firm belief in my new, gawky hero, I set about changing his image. First his N.H. spectacles were changed for a more sophisticated, horn-rimmed pair, then his frizzy hair was cropped to a more manageable length. But perhaps the biggest change of all came when his spots disappeared and his nervousness became replaced by the self-confidence I successfully instilled in him. The ugly duckling was fast becoming a big, beautiful buck swan.

Just as other girls were getting wise to Sidney's new, improved looks, so our 'A' levels results came through and we all dispersed to different colleges.

Sidney and I were the only two to gain acceptance to Oxford — and throughout our three years there, our relationship gradually blossomed and intensified. Now extraordinarily good-looking, shatteringly intelligent, and a superb lover, I proudly accepted his offer to marry me. How could I turn down such a chance?

But, I must confess, I still feel those old "schoolgirl twinges," despite leading a full and active sex life with Sidney. More than a few travelling salesmen have fallen my way during Sidney's absence. But he knows — and understands. To use his words:

"A sportswoman can't attempt record-breaking without a lot of practice."

How philosophical can you get?